


A Story of You

by TheSleepingKnight



Series: The Typewriter Collections [3]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Gen, Metafiction, Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 01:24:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17571662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepingKnight/pseuds/TheSleepingKnight
Summary: Welcome to your story. Sit down and listen.





	A Story of You

_This is a story about you._

* * *

 

You are lost.

That’s a sad word. **Lost**. You don’t like it. It's such a sad word, so heavy and cold and hopeless. It is an icy flame in the skin beneath your skin; a brand, a kiss. Lost is the word that drags down and blackens your blood, lost is the word that carves out and hollows your bones, lost is the word that drips off your skin. You hate it. It means you belong here, in the place where the broken things go.

* * *

 

_What are you?_

_A myth._

_A metaphor._

_A story._

_A dream._

* * *

 

But where else would you be? You are broken. Broken. Shattered, defective, damaged. You cycle through synonyms, snatching at them when they try to escape and graft them onto your skin, although they only make the hunger worse. Damaged is the one you decided on. You are damaged beyond repair. Beyond the world, beyond light and life and death.

God had created you, shaped you, looked at you and found you _wanting._

Wanting. Want. Desire. Hope.

Hope. You hold onto that word, feeling it burning in your core. It cannot fix anything. Hope cannot make you whole again. Hope cannot cure the emptiness, cannot make you remember what you were. Hope cannot do anything except make you endure.

But it is something.

* * *

 

_Have you heard the tale of Pygmalion?_

* * *

 

Someone is coming, someone is coming. You don’t really see, not anymore. That requires eyes, and you lost those a long time ago. Lost along with all the other things that made you a person. No, to you the world is simply one massive spider web of words, pulsing and thriving and breathing in its own way. and whoever is coming is sending shockwaves the size of tsunamis down the threads. They’re _whole,_ in a way that many here aren’t. They aren’t struggling to hold onto their face and form like the others—the swirling, everpresent ink that creates and holds and defines the universe seems to almost gravitate towards them, like stars orbiting a sun.

They’re-

They’re real.

* * *

 

_In ancient Cyprus, a sculptor of extraordinary talent, Pygmalion, scratched and picked and carved at a slab of marble until he had created the most wondrous woman. His masterpiece. His magnum opus.  
_

 

_His love._

* * *

 

You launch yourself in their direction, limbs falling and tangling and reshaping into long, spindly things as you desperately try to reach the feast that awaits you. If you feed on them, bite into them and drink the sweet, dark liquid that pumps in theri soul, eat the words that have coalesced on their skin, perhaps the pain will go away.

You’d do anything to make the pain go away.

You’d do anything to have a name again.

You’d do anything to remember again.

* * *

 

 _He knew that the statue he had made could not compare to anyone else’s. It was_ **_his._ ** _She was his best, his brightest creation yet. There was only one final step._

* * *

 

You draw closer to them, and you’re no longer really thinking coherently anymore. Your thoughts are fragments of flashes of words. The hunger has overridden all rational thought. You can only think of the pain, of the emptiness, and how this is going to make everything better.

They’re right in front of you now. You don’t slow down a fraction, leaping with spider like legs of writhing and screaming ink. You can so clearly see your legs sinking through their chest, their head, and drinking from the fountain of words they are, of becoming whole-

Blood.

Someone’s screaming. It’s a horrible sound, like a static-ridden tv learning how to scream.

Why are you screaming?

* * *

 

_He reached up, and with power swirling in his lungs, he whispered her name into her ear, and said:_

**_Come to life._ **

_And then she did, and the two created the most wonderful story and lived happily ever after._

_Except, they didn’t._

* * *

 

Blood in the spaces where it shouldn’t be, leaking out of the fragile cages that hold it inside you. No! You have to keep it inside. You’ll die. You need to keep it. It’s yours. The stranger can’t have it.

It runs down the spear, right into the stranger’s hands. When had there been a spear? There hadn’t been. The stranger had _made_ it.

The stranger is making strange noises. You lack the necessary organs to understand them. They’re irrelevant. You don’t care what they have to say.

You just want the ink.

You slice through the weakly-held together word-weapon and the fight begins in earnest. You lash out with scything limbs, morphing into an anthropomorphic shape to better match them. You spin and stab and slice, and silence gives way to the song of conjured steel against sharp shadows.

A feeling of comfort settles over you. This _humanoid_ shape feels better. A phantom sensation plays on skin you don’t have, a feeling of coolness that brushes past you. For a moment, you drift on that ghost memory, almost remembering-

No!

You have to stay focused. You need the stranger’s blood. You have to win. You need it more then you’ve never needed anything else before.

* * *

 

_Because while he truly did love the woman, Pygmalion suffered from a flaw. The flaw all creators share, that all men share, that all gods share._

_He looked at his creation, and thought:_

**_I could do better._ **

* * *

 

You throw yourself into battle even further, hammering away at the pathetic constructs of the stranger, hastily formed and hastily destroyed. This would be over soon, soon. You can hear the stranger weakening, hear the bones creaking, hear that beating heart pounding in fear. It will all be over soon, and you’ll be _fixed._

And then-

And then…

You hadn’t thought about then.

You hadn’t thought about how it wouldn’t fix anything

You hadn’t thought about how he had _left you here._

And then your heart is run through.

* * *

 

_And so, Pygmalion set down his latest creation and began to work on a new one. It would be better. Stronger. More enchanting, more enthralling. He would make something worthy of recognition._

_And as he toiled away, his old love fell into pieces, forgotten. Because like all men, like all gods, like all authors-_

_He forgets._

_The End._

* * *

 

You try to change your shape, to keep moving, to fight back, to _live-_

But it is over, and you know it. You’ve lost. You’re going to die.

The stranger moves forward. They’re making those sounds again, the ones you can’t understand. They’re reaching up. You don’t have the strength to bat their arms away.

Hands, touching you and

_P u l l i n g_

_Y o u_

_A p a r t_

_A n d_

_S t i t c h i n g_

_Y o u_

_B a c k_

You _gasp_.

You _breathe._

You _blink._

You have a _face._

You can _see._

You see a girl. A beautiful girl, even though her skin is dripping with the ink she’s rent from your body. Her bottle glass green eyes are so pretty, sparkling like that. Like jewels glittering in the dark, like a smile from a loved one. They look like…

“Li-Lisa?” You force out through the pain and the ink flooding your lungs. “Li… li-”

“Shhhh, Taylor.” She murmurs, hands still touching your face. “Save your strength. Don’t- don’t hurt yourself.”

“You- you killed me.” You slur. Horror dawns on you. “I tried to kill _you.”_

“You weren’t yourself.” Lisa whispers. That is not true. You were reduced to your most basic instincts. You were more yourself than anyone has ever been.

“I was going to save them.” You promise, a coldness beginning to spread throughout your body, worse than anything you’ve ever known, and you know what it is. “I was going to save all of you. He told me I was special. He told me he loved me.” There is too much blood. Too much ink. “Why did he abandon me, Lisa?”

“I’m sorry, Taylor.” There is more liquid on her face, but the new addition is clear. Those are tears, you remember. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I don’t want to die.” You say, and that’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said. “I don’t want to die. Please, please- you gave me a face again, can you-”

“I _can’t._ ” Lisa said, and she was properly sobbing now. “I’m sorry. This- I don’t know _how_. I don’t know to save you.”  

“I just wanted to save the world.” You whisper, and the killing cold has reached your chest. “I just wanted to save the people I loved. That was all I wanted, and he abandoned me. Why, Lisa? Why was I not good enough for him?”

“You were.” She promised, fire spilling into her watery eyes. “You were good enough, Taylor. It’s not your fault. It’s his.”

“Lisa.” You say the name again. It might be the last name you ever say. That...does not sound too bad.

Distantly, you can hear something. The sound of a train. It’s tracks rumble beneath you. The smell of coal and steel drifts into your senses. The buzz of the engine shivers underneath your skin. The cold has reached your lids, and it slowly, gently drags them closed.

And then…

Y o u’ r e

C a r r i ed

A w a y…

* * *

 

_This is a story about you._

_You are a myth._

_You are a metaphor._

_You are a story._

_You are a dream._

  


**Author's Note:**

> I didn't expect to update this so soon, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone. I hope you all enjoy.


End file.
